


Withdrawal

by asabovesobelow (wherewouldwebe)



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Romance, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherewouldwebe/pseuds/asabovesobelow
Summary: And he thought it was his fault. Maybe it was, at first. But after an entire quarterly return of static, eventually fault lies with whoever holds the most spite.
Relationships: Debbie Eagan & Ruth Wilder, Russell Barroso/Ruth Wilder, Sam Sylvia & Ruth Wilder, Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

> I only have a vague idea as to where I'm going with this but on we go anyway

He’s been letting up on the workouts recently, schedule too full, and besides he’s getting plenty of exercise moving equipment around the biggest fucking set he’s ever worked in his life. That’s surely enough, right?

Except he’s wheezing as he walks up the stairs, putting more weight on the handrail than it was designed for, dragging himself up. It’s not a long distance, but they’re steep steps, and it’s not like he even wants to get to the top. It’s pretty much the last place he ever wants to be.

But he makes it anyway, panting. He doubles over for a second, takes one breath to slow his heart-rate. Another to steel himself. Knocks maybe a bit louder than necessary, but it _feels_ necessary. It sets the tone. He may be an old bastard, but he’s got a strong knock and nobody better fucking mess with him. Sheila would call it an alpha move, and she’d be right. She just wouldn’t mention how pathetic that is.

The door swings open, the face behind it starts with confusion, then surprise, then it tightens up. Looks down.

“Sam,” he says, sounding more tired than angry.

“Russell,” he replies.

There’s a couple of seconds of awkward silence. He should talk first. He came here, he has a reason, he should talk first. Except he’d rather a segue into the question. Something about even asking it will give something away, something he doesn’t want _this_ guy, of all people, to have. But he needs the answer and he can swallow his pride. He should talk first.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sam?” Russell sighs, interrupting his inner rant. And isn’t that just typical of Russell? Swooping in before Sam has the chance to do what he was thinking about.

Sam stalls for a beat, looking behind the ridiculous afro, into an apartment that gives nothing away. No easy answers, then. Not unless he asks.

“Have you seen her?” He sounds pathetic, he knows it. Russell probably knows it. And so help him, if he’s asked any clarifying questions— _seen who?_ —he might finally get the chance to give him a fat lip, like he’s wanted to do since he first saw her blush at his smug, vermin-y smile.

Russell doesn’t pretend not to know who Sam’s talking about, and later he’ll probably pat himself on the back over his fucking nobility. “Not in person, not since Vegas. She called, we broke up.” He has a crease in his forehead, almost cartoonish in its expressiveness, but sincere. “I stopped by her apartment a couple weeks ago. It’s empty.”

Sam rolls his eyes. He knows her apartment is empty, as if he didn’t check her fucking _apartment_ before he came sniffing here.

Almost three months. Three months of not hearing a word from her. No performance reports, no voicemails, not even a holiday card from ass-fuck nowhere, posing prim and proper with her parents and proving that an affinity towards ugly sweaters is a genetic condition.

And he thought it was his fault. Maybe it was, at first. But after an entire quarterly return of static, eventually fault lies with whoever holds the most spite. And she would have to have a lot of spite to not even call, after three fucking months.

He could have gone a lot longer, just thinking that he’d fucked up and she didn’t want to talk to him. He’d have picked up the phone a few more times, let it ring out, tell himself he didn’t deserve happiness anyway and been done with it. Except he happened across Debbie a few days ago, and he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell, but it was clear as day that she hadn’t heard from Ruth either.

And if Ruth wasn’t the meek woman trying desperately to be a part of her friend’s life in any capacity, even as a footstool, then who the hell was she?

Russell breaks his train of thought again, with a humorless chuckle. “I was hoping you were here to offer me a job, to be honest.”

“What, KDTV not doing it for you?”

He shrugs. “They weren’t too happy with me flying to spain for two months without notice. Plus, word on the street is you’re making the next Breakfast Club.”

Sam scoffs, ready to defend his daughter’s movie against the comparison. But something gives him pause. Instead, he says: 

“I’ll call you if something comes up.”

He bids a quick, insincere goodbye and lights a cigarette before making the trek downstairs. It’s easier on the way down at least.

He won’t call Russell. _He_ won’t, anyway. He’ll get one of the many suits that follow him around set to do it. No way he’s gonna offer the guy a job without at least a degree of separation. But Russell is fine with a camera, and he can take direction, and it’s not like Sam will give a flying fuck if he tries to flirt with one of the actresses this time.

Plus, if Ruth has up and left everyone, chances are she’s trying to get her life in order. And Sam’s been around long enough to know that when people get their life in order, they don’t come back to guys like Sam.

He slams the door of his car, the metal creaking as it settles back into shape. He’s been doing that too much. Learning that Ruth has gone completely off-grid, the past few days have been door-slamming and stomping and jagged, jittery movements. He’s been off the blow for longer than he's ever gone in his adult, Hollywood life, but there's something familiar about the paranoia, the urgency, the feeling of coming down and spiraling into a state of persistent panic.

She’s probably not dead. Dead people leave a trace, whether on purpose or not. She’s erased, completely obliterated. Her apartment scrubbed floor-to-ceiling, too clean for the landlord who didn’t bother to fix the leak in her roof last year. Too intentional.

She’s just _gone._ Which is a shame, for his mind and his health and for _her,_ next time he sees her. He could at least forgive her, if she were dead.


End file.
